


The Bloody King

by DoreyG



Category: 15th Century CE RPF, Horrible Histories
Genre: Everybody Dies, Gen, Subtle insanity, Very much an AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-19
Updated: 2012-03-19
Packaged: 2017-11-02 04:30:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/364982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoreyG/pseuds/DoreyG
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is not the way that history went.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Bloody King

This is not the way that history went.

It is not, that is a fact that is unavoidable. In reality Richard III died at thirty two years of age on Bosworth field. His crown was found hanging from a bush. His body was found a few hours later and treated horrifically – mutilated and thrown into the river to be forgotten… But, despite all this, he died a good man. A right man. A man who would be remembered by the sensible as a just king unfortunately ripped from his throne.

But that was not the only way it could’ve gone.

Anybody would’ve gone mad under the weight of things that he faced. The death of his son, so young and innocent. The death of his wife, so lovely and kind. The accusations… Such terrible accusations. Of murder and incest and dark things that no man should’ve ever even thought of. Anybody would’ve gone mad under that, _anybody_.

“They don’t want me to be nice,” he says softly one day when standing in front of the grave of his wife, feeling only that empty feeling that comes after tears, “so I _won’t_ be.”

…And so he did.

Go mad, of course, but a subtle kind of madness. Not the kind of Carlos of Spain a handful of centuries later, he who only dribbled and sometimes flew into rages. Not the kind of George III another handful after that, he who talked to trees and generally remained genial. No – a kind that only darkened his eyes, a kind that allowed him to still appear in public, a kind that allowed him to act as normal as any other man…

A kind that made him _hungry_.

He met Henry, that arrogant pretender, in battle about three months after his decision. Fought so viciously, so brutally, that he _crushed_ those opposing forces. Slaughtered every man who had stood against him – slit their throats or hung them from the plainest gallows or even cut their heads off with a few sharp chops. He even heard Henry scream before he died… Felt nothing.

 _Nothing_.

“You are safe, sire,” the government told him shakily, men standing with slightly haunted eyes (for they had lost brothers, friends – and yet he _still_ did not care).

“Nobody will dare challenge you _now_ ,” his mother exulted later that night, smiling in a way that was finally _proud_ (something that he’d chased after for so many years).

…He still felt nothing.

For it wasn’t enough, after the battle when the bloody dust had settled and it became properly clear that _nobody_ would challenge him. Too few people had been hurt. Too few people had felt pain like he had once felt, had had their hearts broken into shattered pieces and trodden into the floor. Too few people had _suffered_ … And they deserved to suffer, ever so.

He waited for another year, a cold year of listlessness, and then picked up his executioners sword again and went back to war.

The Earl of Derby, stepfather of that young Henry and almost traitor - He was the first to fall: screaming for mercy and clutching his bloodied throat. His wife (Henry’s mother, of course) got to glimpse that, got to suffer as he suffered when he heard Anne’s last rattling breath, before she was dragged off too – executed with the stunned lords of England looking on.

They soon follow. The Greys, The Buckinghams, the Staffords… Most, if not _all_. Even the clergy, a God who has taken so much deserves _none_ of his affection, suffer – bishops, priests, nuns, monks. Even _Stillington_ (he who helped so much, and so helped so much to be lost), choking and spluttering and praying all the way down.

He felt his hands grow sticky with blood.

He smiled blankly, and ordered another screaming execution.

“Please,” Elizabeth came to him in the end, pretty and blonde and so resembling his dead brother (yet another one ripped away). Kneeled, with tears staining her smooth cheeks, “please – stop this, uncle. You are becoming a man that can never be redeemed.”

He stared at her… He remembered that the plotters once said she should marry Henry, once said that she should bear his children and put an entirely new dynasty upon the old throne.

He has been accused of killing his blood before. It is no trouble to make it more official – to have her dragged up off the floor and sent immediately to the block. (The servants whisper afterwards, say that her sobbing ghost haunts the corridors at night. He wonders if he’ll see her at some point, wonders if she’d recognize a fellow ghost drifting through the painful fragility of life).

Years passed, the slaughter slowed because there was nobody left to throw to the wolves. His hair grew grey, white. His hands grew slightly wrinkled where they clutch the throne. He knew that his madness was no longer in his eyes – those few that remain whisper it, whisper on how it has taken over his face and turned it into a boiling thing that only bears an incidental resemblance to a man.

“You are a _monster_ ,” his sister spat at him, one of the final ones to face the uncertain spectre of the blade.

He only smiled, still blank. Remained alone upon his throne.

…He could’ve had everything, really, if the universe and the people within it had been just a little kinder. He could’ve had the respect of his brother, the respect of his men. The adoration of his country, the adoration of his son. The love of _Anne_ , the love of their many carefree children together who would’ve never had to face a single day of pain.

Everything.

It is a relief when the assassins come.

…And it is lucky, ever so lucky, that that is not the way that history went.


End file.
